Wednesday, June 16, 2004
This is the thing. In a little more than a month, it will be the first anniversary of my entry into the photon-proton world. It seems somewhat unreal that it even happened. That I daily went in to have protons or photons shot into my head, that I can never have radiation directed at that part of my body for the rest of my life. It also seems unreal to me that in twoish months it will be the third anniversary of my brain surgery on Sept. 11. I've written in my journal the various places I've been in the past years: 1) On an operating table in NOVA (northern virginia for the uninformed, near DC). 2) Sitting on the steps of Washington Sq. United Methodist Church in Manhattan. 3) Having protons shot into my brain in Boston, MA. It is only a sick coincidence that I have been near the Pentagon on the day of, in New York City, near a park where I've been told one could once see the WTC, in Boston where two of the planes took off. I wonder what will be number 4. Supposedly it will be Sarah Lawrence, but I have ceased to expect what I actually expect.
Monday, May 31, 2004
This is one of the essays I submitted to Sarah Lawrence for my application:
Essay #1: Autobiography
I tend to look at my life as a series of stories—The Religion, The Body and The Adventure—all of which overlap and make a messy meld of a life.
The Religion
I am a Mennonite caught in a Mennonite embrace—for good or for ill. A definition of this embrace is tricky. Some Mennonites dress plain and live in tight-knit communities. Some do not. Some live quietly with their beliefs in simple living, nonviolence and justice for the economically and politically oppressed. Some do not. Some believe in the literal Second Coming of Christ. Some do not.
I come from a group known as the Molochna Colony Mennonites from the Ukraine. The older generations still speak Plautdeutsch; we make New Year’s Cookies and Paypanate during the holidays; Zweibach, Borscht and Verenika the rest of the year. I grew up believing the rest of the world lived as we did, since almost everyone I associated with was Mennonite.
My world-view experienced a shock when I went to a different Mennonite sect’s university instead of my own. I was still among Mennonites, but all were Swiss rather than Russian, had little to no ethnic food, sang different hymns and some had a different, more liberal view of everything. This was all rather bewildering
“Don’t be surprised if people think you are a lesbian when you come back,” I was told before I left. Apparently, this was a place where students, women especially, came out.
I wouldn’t be surprised if people back home wiped their foreheads in relief when I was married to a man—though they can’t understand why I’ve kept my own name.
I have many disagreements with the church. But I’ve also kept to my faith—though not necessarily in ways acceptable to some Mennonites. I feel liberated by these things my religious identity has granted me: the notion of living in this world, participating in the stories that surround me while having a counter-culture vision. I live with the belief that the last shall be first and the first shall be last is not merely for a future time, but is here among us, right now.
The Body
At age three I was diagnosed with Ollier’s Disease, a rare genetic disorder that causes cartilage tumors to grow on one side of the body. It stunts the growth and strength of the bones and twists them out of alignment.
Throughout childhood, I had a dozen surgeries to lengthen and straighten my left leg. A contraption called the Illazerov fixator was used three times for this purpose. My leg was broken and metal pins were drilled into my bones. The pins were held by a brace. Three times a day little screws were turned with a wrench, which pulled the brace apart. The bone created new bone as it healed. The skin was stretched at the same time.
In 2000, I discovered I had an Ollier’s-related brain tumor. It had slowly grown from the base of my skull until it began touching the left frontal lobe, which caused seizures. A little over a year later, they began to intensify, finally resulting in a grand mal seizure.
On September 11, 2001, I had a surgery to remove part of the tumor. It is a strange experience to wake up to a world so utterly changed both individually and globally. When someone told me about it, I came out of the fog of sedatives to angrily state I already knew. Perhaps I had heard people talking or saw in a haze a television report. Perhaps certain sorrows are felt keenly, by osmosis.
It took an entire year for me to heal. My right side was partially paralyzed and I had difficulty speaking and writing. It is frightening for anyone to be subjected to such a paralysis of words— especially when one has linked their entire identity with them.
This summer I opted for proton beam radiation to treat the remaining tumor. For seven weeks in August and September 2003, I went into Massachusetts General Hospital in Cambridge every day to lie on a table and be strapped down in the Cyclotron machine. It looked like the inside of a giant dryer. I was inserted into the drum (i.e. the dryer) and a huge telescoping cylinder shot protons at me for twenty minutes. Afterwards I went home, wrote the day’s story in my web log, sometimes puked, and slept.
The Adventure
In the fall of 1999, I went to the Middle East for a semester-long cross-cultural, a requirement for graduation at my university. My group studied religion, history, literature and Arabic in Egypt, Israel/Palestine and Jordan.
While at Gaza University, I draped a veil over my head and entered a world I didn’t really understand. The women of our group were led to the women’s side of the campus. Our men heard arguments about Americans’ lack of comprehension of the significance of English literature. On the women’s side there were no such debates. The women we met were more eager to hear about our lives, our families. They wanted us to take off our veils and show our hair. To encourage us, they took of their veils and chadors. I had seen this again and again with Muslim women: in refugee camps, at weddings and at this university. It was a gesture of intimacy that intrigued me, this unveiling of one’s body but also of one’s spirit. I am sure these women had many disagreements with our culture and way of life, but they chose to learn about us as individuals. I felt honored to be given such a gift.
Another gift given during my time in Israel/Palestine was when some of us were invited to a Shabbat meal on a cool Friday evening with the family of National Public Radio’s Linda Gradstein. Her two gorgeous children tried to give us their few shekels when they heard we were poor students; her husband invited us to a Shakespeare play for which he had suddenly been recruited. As the wine and challah were served in silence, and the sushi and saki were served amid laughter, I had a sense of connection with an ancient tradition made new. A fresh chapter in an unbroken story.
And
The logistics of story-telling is fascinating. Every time a person hears or reads a story, he or she can find something new to interlace into the narrative. The tale does not end with the final paragraph. Life works the same way. My religion, body and adventures do not merely exist in the past; they are ongoing because my perspective of them changes with time. I recall something differently or more clearly than before. Each morning when I wake up I have that many more memories between the self then and the self now. They have inspired my visions as a writer in my fiction. But the true essence of my story remains the same.
Essay #1: Autobiography
I tend to look at my life as a series of stories—The Religion, The Body and The Adventure—all of which overlap and make a messy meld of a life.
The Religion
I am a Mennonite caught in a Mennonite embrace—for good or for ill. A definition of this embrace is tricky. Some Mennonites dress plain and live in tight-knit communities. Some do not. Some live quietly with their beliefs in simple living, nonviolence and justice for the economically and politically oppressed. Some do not. Some believe in the literal Second Coming of Christ. Some do not.
I come from a group known as the Molochna Colony Mennonites from the Ukraine. The older generations still speak Plautdeutsch; we make New Year’s Cookies and Paypanate during the holidays; Zweibach, Borscht and Verenika the rest of the year. I grew up believing the rest of the world lived as we did, since almost everyone I associated with was Mennonite.
My world-view experienced a shock when I went to a different Mennonite sect’s university instead of my own. I was still among Mennonites, but all were Swiss rather than Russian, had little to no ethnic food, sang different hymns and some had a different, more liberal view of everything. This was all rather bewildering
“Don’t be surprised if people think you are a lesbian when you come back,” I was told before I left. Apparently, this was a place where students, women especially, came out.
I wouldn’t be surprised if people back home wiped their foreheads in relief when I was married to a man—though they can’t understand why I’ve kept my own name.
I have many disagreements with the church. But I’ve also kept to my faith—though not necessarily in ways acceptable to some Mennonites. I feel liberated by these things my religious identity has granted me: the notion of living in this world, participating in the stories that surround me while having a counter-culture vision. I live with the belief that the last shall be first and the first shall be last is not merely for a future time, but is here among us, right now.
The Body
At age three I was diagnosed with Ollier’s Disease, a rare genetic disorder that causes cartilage tumors to grow on one side of the body. It stunts the growth and strength of the bones and twists them out of alignment.
Throughout childhood, I had a dozen surgeries to lengthen and straighten my left leg. A contraption called the Illazerov fixator was used three times for this purpose. My leg was broken and metal pins were drilled into my bones. The pins were held by a brace. Three times a day little screws were turned with a wrench, which pulled the brace apart. The bone created new bone as it healed. The skin was stretched at the same time.
In 2000, I discovered I had an Ollier’s-related brain tumor. It had slowly grown from the base of my skull until it began touching the left frontal lobe, which caused seizures. A little over a year later, they began to intensify, finally resulting in a grand mal seizure.
On September 11, 2001, I had a surgery to remove part of the tumor. It is a strange experience to wake up to a world so utterly changed both individually and globally. When someone told me about it, I came out of the fog of sedatives to angrily state I already knew. Perhaps I had heard people talking or saw in a haze a television report. Perhaps certain sorrows are felt keenly, by osmosis.
It took an entire year for me to heal. My right side was partially paralyzed and I had difficulty speaking and writing. It is frightening for anyone to be subjected to such a paralysis of words— especially when one has linked their entire identity with them.
This summer I opted for proton beam radiation to treat the remaining tumor. For seven weeks in August and September 2003, I went into Massachusetts General Hospital in Cambridge every day to lie on a table and be strapped down in the Cyclotron machine. It looked like the inside of a giant dryer. I was inserted into the drum (i.e. the dryer) and a huge telescoping cylinder shot protons at me for twenty minutes. Afterwards I went home, wrote the day’s story in my web log, sometimes puked, and slept.
The Adventure
In the fall of 1999, I went to the Middle East for a semester-long cross-cultural, a requirement for graduation at my university. My group studied religion, history, literature and Arabic in Egypt, Israel/Palestine and Jordan.
While at Gaza University, I draped a veil over my head and entered a world I didn’t really understand. The women of our group were led to the women’s side of the campus. Our men heard arguments about Americans’ lack of comprehension of the significance of English literature. On the women’s side there were no such debates. The women we met were more eager to hear about our lives, our families. They wanted us to take off our veils and show our hair. To encourage us, they took of their veils and chadors. I had seen this again and again with Muslim women: in refugee camps, at weddings and at this university. It was a gesture of intimacy that intrigued me, this unveiling of one’s body but also of one’s spirit. I am sure these women had many disagreements with our culture and way of life, but they chose to learn about us as individuals. I felt honored to be given such a gift.
Another gift given during my time in Israel/Palestine was when some of us were invited to a Shabbat meal on a cool Friday evening with the family of National Public Radio’s Linda Gradstein. Her two gorgeous children tried to give us their few shekels when they heard we were poor students; her husband invited us to a Shakespeare play for which he had suddenly been recruited. As the wine and challah were served in silence, and the sushi and saki were served amid laughter, I had a sense of connection with an ancient tradition made new. A fresh chapter in an unbroken story.
And
The logistics of story-telling is fascinating. Every time a person hears or reads a story, he or she can find something new to interlace into the narrative. The tale does not end with the final paragraph. Life works the same way. My religion, body and adventures do not merely exist in the past; they are ongoing because my perspective of them changes with time. I recall something differently or more clearly than before. Each morning when I wake up I have that many more memories between the self then and the self now. They have inspired my visions as a writer in my fiction. But the true essence of my story remains the same.
Friday, May 28, 2004
How on earth does someone explain the Israeli/Palestinian conflict to a ten year old? Especially when this Japanese-American child lives in a world devoid of any faith-leaning (as he says, he's got no religion)and a world which is very diverse racially, culturally, you name it. (There isn't a single blonde, blue-eyed kid in the bunch that go to this after school program, they are all Hispanic, Asian, Bangladeshi--mostly first generation Americans.) Leo was trying to answer some pretty sophisticated questions based on the tiny article in the Times for Kids magazine. One article to explain something that's lasted fifty years.
How does one explain this without getting her own views on the subject, but telling the truth (as I see it, so of course the question is "what is truth?").
How does one explain this without getting her own views on the subject, but telling the truth (as I see it, so of course the question is "what is truth?").
Wednesday, May 26, 2004
Tuesday, May 25, 2004
Death (?) Marriage Drunk Missing Song
It's been a weird few days. Friday moring a guy called me and said he had gone to this church back in 2000 when he was suicidal, and he was suicidal again. He kept saying what was the point of living. The world was fucked up. Did I think so? Yes, I said. Doesn't that make me want to kill myself? Yes. Everyone thinks of it, I said. But life is precious; we really don't know what awaits us on the other side. So I'd never do it. Because maybe I'd never get a chance to live again. Had I ever been fucked over by life, he asked. Yes. I told him about my brain tumor etc.
This went on for awhile. I didn't quite know what to do. I'd never dealt with this before. No one was around except for me. I didn't know if he was even serious. I just kept talking and listening. He said he had a 38 and what was the point etc. He would get back at the world by doing this. He had been sexually abused by his father, now dead, and his mother was dying.
At one point he got cut off. I about freaked out. I *69'd him, but was told it was a private number. I felt responsible.
When David and Ronnie came, I told them. There's not a whole lot you can do, they said. Sometimes they just need to talk. Sometimes they're faking. Sometimes they want to place the responsibility on another person. Tom said the same when I told him.
Pretty much the whole day was shot for me. But as I left for the day, a group of homeless folks were sitting on the church steps. One of the men said, this is sort of our home--it's our sanctuary. Everyone needs a sanctuary, I said. Then he asked me to marry him, I was so cool. I'm already married, sorry. He laughed. I laughed, and felt a little better.
Friday night we had a crazy Menno House party as an Alicia sendoff. I got drunker, etc, than I'd ever been. I drank tequila for the first time and made vodka shots. As the evening progressed, some craziness of other kinds surfaced. But I'll leave it at that. I woke several times during the night. I got totally paranoid, thinking I would feel this way for the rest of my life.
Monday morning I told the Metro staff about my Friday eve. They loved it. And I loved that I was telling Baptists. It was like the first time I'd ever consumed alcohol in the presence of a religious figure; I had Thai beer with a nun.
Monday morning I found out that one of my coworkers friends was missing. I'd seen her on a flyer that morning as I zoomed to work. I studied it on the way home. I felt an emptiness. I can't explain it. This was life fucking someone over. You go out for a run in a park and don't come home.
Monday afternoon the suicide guy called again. His first words were Why are you fucking around with me?
I was in a meeting at the time, and I was amazed at how calm I replied, mainly because he was alive: I'm in a meeting right now. Can you be more specific? He continued on the fucking mode, and finally I got his name, though I don't know if it was true. He said he'd cut himself and gone out into the street and no one cared. I said, do you want to talk to the pastor, he's here, and more qualified to talk to you. I passed him on to David. I don't know what happened after that.
This morning David gave me a recipe for Ugly Rum Cake. He smiled as he showed it to me.
I'm listening to Cat Stevens right now. Trouble and If You Want to Sing Out, Sing Out totally fit my conflicting moods today. A few weeks ago, some Menno Housers and I had a hymn sing. When I'm singing that is when I truly believe there's a God. How can something as beautiful as music just fly up to the sky unheeded?
It's been a weird few days. Friday moring a guy called me and said he had gone to this church back in 2000 when he was suicidal, and he was suicidal again. He kept saying what was the point of living. The world was fucked up. Did I think so? Yes, I said. Doesn't that make me want to kill myself? Yes. Everyone thinks of it, I said. But life is precious; we really don't know what awaits us on the other side. So I'd never do it. Because maybe I'd never get a chance to live again. Had I ever been fucked over by life, he asked. Yes. I told him about my brain tumor etc.
This went on for awhile. I didn't quite know what to do. I'd never dealt with this before. No one was around except for me. I didn't know if he was even serious. I just kept talking and listening. He said he had a 38 and what was the point etc. He would get back at the world by doing this. He had been sexually abused by his father, now dead, and his mother was dying.
At one point he got cut off. I about freaked out. I *69'd him, but was told it was a private number. I felt responsible.
When David and Ronnie came, I told them. There's not a whole lot you can do, they said. Sometimes they just need to talk. Sometimes they're faking. Sometimes they want to place the responsibility on another person. Tom said the same when I told him.
Pretty much the whole day was shot for me. But as I left for the day, a group of homeless folks were sitting on the church steps. One of the men said, this is sort of our home--it's our sanctuary. Everyone needs a sanctuary, I said. Then he asked me to marry him, I was so cool. I'm already married, sorry. He laughed. I laughed, and felt a little better.
Friday night we had a crazy Menno House party as an Alicia sendoff. I got drunker, etc, than I'd ever been. I drank tequila for the first time and made vodka shots. As the evening progressed, some craziness of other kinds surfaced. But I'll leave it at that. I woke several times during the night. I got totally paranoid, thinking I would feel this way for the rest of my life.
Monday morning I told the Metro staff about my Friday eve. They loved it. And I loved that I was telling Baptists. It was like the first time I'd ever consumed alcohol in the presence of a religious figure; I had Thai beer with a nun.
Monday morning I found out that one of my coworkers friends was missing. I'd seen her on a flyer that morning as I zoomed to work. I studied it on the way home. I felt an emptiness. I can't explain it. This was life fucking someone over. You go out for a run in a park and don't come home.
Monday afternoon the suicide guy called again. His first words were Why are you fucking around with me?
I was in a meeting at the time, and I was amazed at how calm I replied, mainly because he was alive: I'm in a meeting right now. Can you be more specific? He continued on the fucking mode, and finally I got his name, though I don't know if it was true. He said he'd cut himself and gone out into the street and no one cared. I said, do you want to talk to the pastor, he's here, and more qualified to talk to you. I passed him on to David. I don't know what happened after that.
This morning David gave me a recipe for Ugly Rum Cake. He smiled as he showed it to me.
I'm listening to Cat Stevens right now. Trouble and If You Want to Sing Out, Sing Out totally fit my conflicting moods today. A few weeks ago, some Menno Housers and I had a hymn sing. When I'm singing that is when I truly believe there's a God. How can something as beautiful as music just fly up to the sky unheeded?
Wednesday, May 19, 2004
A horrible day behind me, I boarded the A train at Times Square, followed by two fellows in the usual rapper gear. As the train pulled out of the station, they whipped out two violins and began a duet. It was great. They played in time to the train rushing along the tracks. I found myself smiling and smiling at them the whole time. As the train stopped at my stop, they did a little flourish, and as I got off and the doors closed, I heard them begin again, to a never-ending audience.
Tuesday, May 18, 2004
I took off-brand NyQuil last night, so now I'm doing the floating thing at work...
This morning I talked with an EMU friend I hadn't seen in years--literally--she's thinking about moving here next year. Her parents met in this very house. It made me think about how Menno House is this weird nexus of Mennonites and Mennonite converts. That like Lancaster, Winnipeg, Newton, Harrisburg, Harrisonburg and Fresno, you're destined to come to these places at some point in your life, if even for just a moment. No wonder some call it a cult. And some non-Mennonites who come to this house get swept up into this whirlwind of these people, never to be quite the same again.
Apparently one of those boy band boys is Mennonite. Which is weird in its own way.
This morning I talked with an EMU friend I hadn't seen in years--literally--she's thinking about moving here next year. Her parents met in this very house. It made me think about how Menno House is this weird nexus of Mennonites and Mennonite converts. That like Lancaster, Winnipeg, Newton, Harrisburg, Harrisonburg and Fresno, you're destined to come to these places at some point in your life, if even for just a moment. No wonder some call it a cult. And some non-Mennonites who come to this house get swept up into this whirlwind of these people, never to be quite the same again.
Apparently one of those boy band boys is Mennonite. Which is weird in its own way.
Monday, May 17, 2004
COMING SOON: Woolf T's
Apparently, there's this web thing called cafepress, and you can sell t-shirts etc. on your website or blog site with slogans or artwork you send in to them. It doesn't cost you any money up front. They set a base price that they will collect when someone orders something, and you profit from whatever you price above that!
So, all my creative friends and/or enemies, start thinking. I'm definately expecting something from you, Ted.
Apparently, there's this web thing called cafepress, and you can sell t-shirts etc. on your website or blog site with slogans or artwork you send in to them. It doesn't cost you any money up front. They set a base price that they will collect when someone orders something, and you profit from whatever you price above that!
So, all my creative friends and/or enemies, start thinking. I'm definately expecting something from you, Ted.
Friday, May 14, 2004
The reason I haven't written lately (the usual excuse) is because I've been crazy busy...the director of the afterschool program is in Thailand, so I'm taking over that, a major project that is due at the end of the month, and all the little things that take up time are upon me. Now I'm just hanging around the office, waiting for a banquet to begin. It's to honor the church's volunteers. Which is great, really, but it's Friday, and I have to come back to work a stint at a flea market down the street...I just don't wanna be here!!
Thursday, May 06, 2004
I too took the belief-o-matic quiz (a set of questions about my spiritual beliefs, then rates your answers to what faith group they go with), and here's my results:
1. Liberal Quakers (100%)
2. Mainline to Liberal Christian Protestants (95%)
3. Unitarian Universalism (94%)
4. Neo-Pagan (86%)
5. Mahayana Buddhism (84%)
6. Theravada Buddhism (84%)
7. Orthodox Quaker (79%)
8. New Age (78%)
9. Secular Humanism (77%)
10. Taoism (76%)
11. Reform Judaism (72%)
12. Jainism (67%)
13. Bahá'í Faith (60%)
14. New Thought (57%)
15. Scientology (54%)
16. Hinduism (51%)
17. Sikhism (50%)
18. Mainline to Conservative Christian/Protestant (49%)
19. Nontheist (47%)
20. Christian Science (Church of Christ, Scientist) (44%)
21. Seventh Day Adventist (43%)
22. Orthodox Judaism (39%)
23. Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints (Mormons) (39%)
24. Islam (35%)
25. Eastern Orthodox (28%)
26. Roman Catholic (28%)
27. Jehovah's Witness (25%)
1. Liberal Quakers (100%)
2. Mainline to Liberal Christian Protestants (95%)
3. Unitarian Universalism (94%)
4. Neo-Pagan (86%)
5. Mahayana Buddhism (84%)
6. Theravada Buddhism (84%)
7. Orthodox Quaker (79%)
8. New Age (78%)
9. Secular Humanism (77%)
10. Taoism (76%)
11. Reform Judaism (72%)
12. Jainism (67%)
13. Bahá'í Faith (60%)
14. New Thought (57%)
15. Scientology (54%)
16. Hinduism (51%)
17. Sikhism (50%)
18. Mainline to Conservative Christian/Protestant (49%)
19. Nontheist (47%)
20. Christian Science (Church of Christ, Scientist) (44%)
21. Seventh Day Adventist (43%)
22. Orthodox Judaism (39%)
23. Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints (Mormons) (39%)
24. Islam (35%)
25. Eastern Orthodox (28%)
26. Roman Catholic (28%)
27. Jehovah's Witness (25%)
Wednesday, May 05, 2004
Here's the kindness of Mennonite institutions revisited:
Hesston College has been advertising an opening for a Theatre prof with guarantees of full-time work. The woman who previously held the position is an aunt to one of my housemates, Anya. This is how she came to leave said position:
Theatre and costume loft was infested with toxic mold. For quite some time, apparently. After 12 years working in such an environment, the woman, with a master's in theatre and a seminary degree, fell very ill. Now she cannot be near deoderant, car fumes, perfume, etc. without her chest constricting and keeping her from breathing. She has moved back in with her mother in Ohio and basically can't leave the house unless she wears a mask. She has applied for worker's comp through the college, but apparently the college isn't liable for anything to do with this toxic mold. So, no worker's comp. The college has taken no responsibility for the illness and subsequent disablilty of their former faculty member.
Ahhh...the usual community spirit that is so advertised in the Menno world...makes my MMA struggles look harmless.
Hesston College has been advertising an opening for a Theatre prof with guarantees of full-time work. The woman who previously held the position is an aunt to one of my housemates, Anya. This is how she came to leave said position:
Theatre and costume loft was infested with toxic mold. For quite some time, apparently. After 12 years working in such an environment, the woman, with a master's in theatre and a seminary degree, fell very ill. Now she cannot be near deoderant, car fumes, perfume, etc. without her chest constricting and keeping her from breathing. She has moved back in with her mother in Ohio and basically can't leave the house unless she wears a mask. She has applied for worker's comp through the college, but apparently the college isn't liable for anything to do with this toxic mold. So, no worker's comp. The college has taken no responsibility for the illness and subsequent disablilty of their former faculty member.
Ahhh...the usual community spirit that is so advertised in the Menno world...makes my MMA struggles look harmless.
Monday, April 19, 2004
Friday, April 16, 2004
On Wednesday, Tom and I trekked up to Bronxville (which is a pretty nice place as far as suburbs go--an idealized version of Harrisonburg) for a poetry reading and info session at Sarah Lawrence. It was New Englandish, the weather, ie wet, but we slopped around campus and got lost. One of SLC's drawbacks is they have little signage. We stared at the undergrads--they looked young young young. Tom and I tried to pick out who the theatre students were, and waited to see where they went. Some entered the theatre eventually and we hooted when they did. Then we made our way to the library for the reading. The library reminded us of Tabor College's library, somewhat of EMU's--kind of 60s/70s attempt at futuristic architecture. There must've been extra funds around that time for small colleges to build libaries.
The reading was good. They were all alumni/e (sp?) of SLC, which was a heartening thing. One man had very heady works, the woman had very Mennoish poetry (you know, writing about PA, coal mines) and the last fellow was very sensual. He was the only one who read the poetry well. Not that cadence poets often get. It seemed he was the poetry, that it took over his body.
The info session was good. But I tried to ask a question by raising my hand (I can't help it) and people kept butting in on me. Finally I gave up. I'll email the admissions person later.
The reading was good. They were all alumni/e (sp?) of SLC, which was a heartening thing. One man had very heady works, the woman had very Mennoish poetry (you know, writing about PA, coal mines) and the last fellow was very sensual. He was the only one who read the poetry well. Not that cadence poets often get. It seemed he was the poetry, that it took over his body.
The info session was good. But I tried to ask a question by raising my hand (I can't help it) and people kept butting in on me. Finally I gave up. I'll email the admissions person later.
Thursday, April 15, 2004
This woman came to the door this afternoon, asking for shower, shelter and food. Apparently she was in a abusive relationship and was recently homeless because she'd left the bastard--my words not hers. I said, I'm sorry, but we didn't have any of that. She said, yes we did. She'd been told by many people. Like I was hiding it up my sleeve or something. That if she bugged me enough I would give in. I mentioned that perhaps she had mistaken this church for the shelter across the street, called Open Door, run by nuns. She said no, it was here. And that she'd been to Open Door before and it was horrible and she's not racist, but the black men there were skanky. I didn't know what to say to that. She asked me what the hell did we do here if we didn't run a shelter and I listed the things we did do: Head Start, ESL, Clothes Closet, Food Pantry on Saturdays, Afterschool program. I said I would get some addresses of some women's shelters for her. So I looked and got an address of a women's shelter and a list of soup kitchens. She pocketed the papers and talked for awhile. I let her talk--it sounded like things were pretty bad with her husband--and suddenly she accused me of not doing anything to help her. I pointed out that I had given her an address of a shelter and a list of places to eat. Oh, she's not going there. She'd been there and it was horrible. They were full anyway. I said I would call and find out. After several trys I finally got a living person on the phone. And she said they only took people who had lived in previous shelters. So I tried another shelter and after several dead ends (the amount of bureaurocracy at homeless shelters is amazing) and finally got an address of a women's shelter. I gave that one to her and she'd been there too and the women were horrible. Besides, they were full. I let her call them and they were not full and the guy on the phone said he would wait. I let her use the bathroom and she came out talking again that we had a shelter; several people told her. And she'd called here once and a woman had said there was one there. How long had I worked here? Long enough to know there isn't a shelter, I said. She spoke of a number she knew about called 1 800 Safe Home I should call. I asked her why she didn't say that earlier. She'd forgotten. I called the number but all I got was a busy signal. I said she should go to the shelter I'd found. She didn't want to. She wanted Safe Home. I said the other people could help her more than I could. You had to take steps. She left saying she was going to kill her husband.
What the hell are you supposed to do in a situation like that? How can one be a humane person or a Christian or whatever?
What the hell are you supposed to do in a situation like that? How can one be a humane person or a Christian or whatever?
Wednesday, April 14, 2004
The church is across the street from the Port Authority, which is the home of basically every bus bound for this city. When I first started here, I wondered if the sound (constant sound) of the buses passing within feet of my office window would drive me insane. I don't even notice it anymore. PD (Pastor Dave) said once that he found out nearly 500,000 people go by this church in those buses and trucks and cars every 24 hours.
500,000. Full of people that I will never meet. Some of who could be dead, dying, giving birth, marrying, etc. at this moment. Stories I'll never hear of.
500,000. Full of people that I will never meet. Some of who could be dead, dying, giving birth, marrying, etc. at this moment. Stories I'll never hear of.
Tuesday, April 13, 2004
Rainy. Cold. I'm bored. As good as this job has been, it's definately in a slump right now. I've only been here for an hour, and already I'm done with the stuff I planned to do. I don't think my boss, Pastor Dave, knows what to do with me. He's kind of a control-freak. Not like he's mean about it or anything, but it doesn't cross his mind to delegate. Though he is improving. I don't know if I'm supposed to come to his office every time I finish things, or what. Yesterday he came in my office and said, "What are we going to do to keep you busy?" In my fluster and guilt about it I began asking him some real, but small questions, and he got distracted answering them and then he started talking to someone else and that was the end of it...I stood around, waiting for them to finish, but finally I walked away.
But on the positive side, the trees are blooming outside of the church. It will be like an archway of leaves when summer comes.
But on the positive side, the trees are blooming outside of the church. It will be like an archway of leaves when summer comes.
Monday, April 12, 2004
I walked the Pax Christi Way of the Cross on Good Friday. For the uninitiated, it's a modern Via Dolorosa, or the way of the rose (Christ), which use the Stations of the Cross to address humanitarian issues, like lack of health care, starvation in the midst of plenty, etc. Definately better than Mel Gibson's Passion. Different Pax Christi groups did each station--the Mennonite did a station (the resurrection) with the Methodists. It was really good. Great weather, a good crowd, a lot of good stations, although some went a little long-winded. Here's part of our station. I don't have Bryan's (pastor of the Methodist church) reflection, but the scripture and the prayer I wrote:
Pax Christi Metro New York
Good Friday Observance
Station: #15 The Resurrection
Leaders: Washington Square UMC and the Mennonites
Location: 42nd Street between 8th and 9th
Theme: Gift of Resurrection: Transformation
Scripture: Matthew 27:62 – 28:8
The next day, that is, after the day of Preparation, the chief priests and the Pharisees gathered before Pilate and said, ‘Sir, we remember what that impostor said while he was still alive, “After three days I will rise again.” Therefore command that the tomb be made secure until the third day; otherwise his disciples may go and steal him away, and tell the people, “He has been raised from the dead”, and the last deception would be worse than the first.’ Pilate said to them, ‘You have a guard of soldiers; go, make it as secure as you can.’ So they went with the guard and made the tomb secure by sealing the stone.
After the sabbath, as the first day of the week was dawning, Mary Magdalene and the other Mary went to see the tomb. And suddenly there was a great earthquake; for an angel of the Lord, descending from heaven, came and rolled back the stone and sat on it. His appearance was like lightning, and his clothing white as snow. For fear of him the guards shook and became like dead men. But the angel said to the women, ‘Do not be afraid; I know that you are looking for Jesus who was crucified. He is not here; for he has been raised, as he said. Come, see the place where he lay. Then go quickly and tell his disciples, “He has been raised from the dead, and indeed he is going ahead of you to Galilee; there you will see him.” This is my message for you.’ So they left the tomb quickly with fear and great joy, and ran to tell his disciples.
Prayers of the Faithful:
Watch! Wait! The day of God is at hand! The plans of those who prefer ruin to resurrection have been foiled by the power of justice.
Like the bud on a tree, God’s possibilities are about to blossom!
The day of God is at hand! It is not in some far-off time or place, but in the here and now. As Christ cast the stone of death aside and breathed life, we must cast our stones aside and breathe life.
Like the bud on a tree, God’s possibilities are about to blossom!
The day of God is at hand! We must cast aside the stones of hate, judgment, degradation of our brothers and sisters, mass-consumption and destruction of our planet and the people who live upon it. Like the women who were the first to run to share the good news, let us be ready to do the same.
Like the bud on a tree, God’s possibilities are about to blossom!
The day of Transformation is at hand! The mighty wind has blown; the mantle of darkness is torn away. In the daylight, let us grab the hand of the Christ of compassion, the Christ of love and the Christ of peace. Let us build the upside-down kin-dom spiritually and physically. The bud has blossomed. Christ is risen!
Christ is risen indeed!
Pax Christi Metro New York
Good Friday Observance
Station: #15 The Resurrection
Leaders: Washington Square UMC and the Mennonites
Location: 42nd Street between 8th and 9th
Theme: Gift of Resurrection: Transformation
Scripture: Matthew 27:62 – 28:8
The next day, that is, after the day of Preparation, the chief priests and the Pharisees gathered before Pilate and said, ‘Sir, we remember what that impostor said while he was still alive, “After three days I will rise again.” Therefore command that the tomb be made secure until the third day; otherwise his disciples may go and steal him away, and tell the people, “He has been raised from the dead”, and the last deception would be worse than the first.’ Pilate said to them, ‘You have a guard of soldiers; go, make it as secure as you can.’ So they went with the guard and made the tomb secure by sealing the stone.
After the sabbath, as the first day of the week was dawning, Mary Magdalene and the other Mary went to see the tomb. And suddenly there was a great earthquake; for an angel of the Lord, descending from heaven, came and rolled back the stone and sat on it. His appearance was like lightning, and his clothing white as snow. For fear of him the guards shook and became like dead men. But the angel said to the women, ‘Do not be afraid; I know that you are looking for Jesus who was crucified. He is not here; for he has been raised, as he said. Come, see the place where he lay. Then go quickly and tell his disciples, “He has been raised from the dead, and indeed he is going ahead of you to Galilee; there you will see him.” This is my message for you.’ So they left the tomb quickly with fear and great joy, and ran to tell his disciples.
Prayers of the Faithful:
Watch! Wait! The day of God is at hand! The plans of those who prefer ruin to resurrection have been foiled by the power of justice.
Like the bud on a tree, God’s possibilities are about to blossom!
The day of God is at hand! It is not in some far-off time or place, but in the here and now. As Christ cast the stone of death aside and breathed life, we must cast our stones aside and breathe life.
Like the bud on a tree, God’s possibilities are about to blossom!
The day of God is at hand! We must cast aside the stones of hate, judgment, degradation of our brothers and sisters, mass-consumption and destruction of our planet and the people who live upon it. Like the women who were the first to run to share the good news, let us be ready to do the same.
Like the bud on a tree, God’s possibilities are about to blossom!
The day of Transformation is at hand! The mighty wind has blown; the mantle of darkness is torn away. In the daylight, let us grab the hand of the Christ of compassion, the Christ of love and the Christ of peace. Let us build the upside-down kin-dom spiritually and physically. The bud has blossomed. Christ is risen!
Christ is risen indeed!
I received my rejection letter from Columbia on Friday, which was no big surprise. (And somewhat a relief--would or should I turn down COLUMBIA and go to SLC?) But it was the nicest rejection of the three I'd gotten. It was four paragraphs long--and large paragraphs. Brooklyn was only two short and New School was two and a sentence. Which is better than some places, I've heard. A friend got a postcard--a postcard! At least the other schools took the time and money to send a letter. The Columbia letter said things about the large number of applicants (which could just be a way to soften the blow, although I've heard there are a lot more people turning to grad school because of the economic slump--one good thing out of GWB's administration, I would guess), and the fact that arts-related fields are very subjective when one is choosing students. Which was a lot nicer than BC's statement: "Your submission was not the strongest." Never mind they'd taken a little more than a week to decide no and then when I applied to the English MA program, took less than a week to say yes. Not that I don't think I am a brilliant English candidate, but for God's sake, let the ink dry on the application.
I realize as I write this that my opinions of NS and BC are very subjective as well--it would be a different story if I'd gotten in. Well, maybe not NS. They were snobby from the start.
But I'm an artist, dammit, I can be as subjective as I want! :)
I realize as I write this that my opinions of NS and BC are very subjective as well--it would be a different story if I'd gotten in. Well, maybe not NS. They were snobby from the start.
But I'm an artist, dammit, I can be as subjective as I want! :)
Thursday, April 08, 2004
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